The World is a Dark Place
by Reece1
Summary: Sequel to PC game Nocturne.
1. Prologue

**Based on Nocturne. More violence and gore to come. **

**If anybody is offended by the gore content of this fanfiction it was my every intention to offend, and I am not the least bit sorry. Enjoy! **

* * *

'The world is a dark place.

_Who will protect the world from darkness?_

We will.'

**_- Spookhouse code_**

**Prologue**

_1 year ago..._

The elevator doors rolled open. Something was wrong.

The Stranger left the elevator and stepped into the corridor leading to the Spookhouse official headquarters. All the lights were switched off, and the faint acrid odour of burning plastic teased his nostrils. Finding the light switch to his left, his stomach tightened slightly when nothing happened.

**Stranger:** (in thought) _what the hell is going on?_

Thankfully his night vision goggles were still fully charged, which enabled him some vision though this in itself was only presented in crude static. Using this, plus his own intuition, Stranger found his way to the door leading to the false office. And his heart sank when he saw it.

The door had been ripped off its hinges, and now lay on the floor jutting out awkwardly in the frame. Some light was blocking the vision of the goggles, so the Stranger turned them off to be faced with the full horrific scene.

The light was coming from the emergency lamp in the corridor leading to the official Spookhouse offices; the secret door to which was now open; and this cast an eerie red glow over the small false office. The reception desk was smashed on the left corner, and the draws had been pulled open, some lying on the ground with files spilling out of them like guts. The receptionist was nowhere to be seen, but her fate was rather clearly spelled out in the sizeable blood pool saturating the desk and scattered files. Pulling out his trademark .45 pistols, Stranger slowly approached the corridor leading to Spookhouse.

There was blood here too, some spattered on the ground and some trailed along the walls in dark, wobbly lines, culminating in large splodgy patterns on the elevator door at the end of the corridor. The emergency lamp buzzed lazily amidst the terrible scene.

Stranger always knew they should have abolished that ridiculous password.

He quickly approached the elevator and jammed the button to open it. Thankfully the emergency power system was working perfectly, and soon Stranger was sailing down to the official offices, pistols at the ready.

He emerged to find the halls in darkness; even the emergency lights weren't working here. Still not risking drawing any unwanted attention with his flashlight, Stranger flipped the night vision on once again. He couldn't see any visible signs of struggle, and definitely nothing alive. He flipped the night vision off and turned the flashlight on instead. This showed him more blood, not so much here but enough all the same. And this was quite fresh. There was still no sound coming from the offices, so Stranger entered through the door at the end of the corridor. Though not before noticing the group photograph of past Spookhouse members had been completely ravished, and lay in shreds on the floor.

All the lights were off in the waiting room. The contents of the many filing cabinets were strewn across the floor as they were in the false office, and more blood adorned the walls and floor. At the end of the waiting room, Stranger could make out a large, vague shape crumpled on the floor, and upon closer inspection found the heavily mutilated and dismembered body of the Spookhouse agent Icepick; along with body parts from various other Spookhouse agents; heavily drenched in glistening, partially coagulated blood. Even this was almost enough to cause the stoic Strangers' heart to sink.

**Stranger:** _If they were able to get Icepick down, then..._

Stranger held his thought when something to the left caught his eye. A faint glow radiated from underneath the door to the briefing room, and when Stranger listened warily at the door he could hear the old projector whirring noisily. He tried the door, but it was locked. Thinking it best not to blow the lock with his pistols, he instead turned to check out the lab. Doc was likely to have a spare key lying around somewhere.

Thankfully the door was unlocked, but as expected the lights were out. And Doc, of course, was nowhere to be seen. The lab seemed to have been affected the worst, the thick iron bars of the specimen cage were bent wide open, and the examination tables were upturned and broken: the assorted body parts once assembled upon them now scattered about. The large computer was smashed and flaming; the source of the acrid smell. The lab had been completely looted out, even some of the body parts appeared to have been taken.

And something could be heard from inside the specimen cage, a quiet whimper of sorts coming out in low stuttering gasps. Stranger approached with caution.

And was almost shocked to find Doc's young lab assistant, Justine, curled up behind the small porcelain toilet, her arms held tightly around her knees and tears staining her scarlet cheeks.

**Stranger:** What happened?

**Justine:** (Whimpering) E-everyone...they've k-killed everyone...

**Stranger:** Who?

**Justine:** I-I only managed to escape by...by hiding in the lab...Elspeth t-told me to hide, so they wouldn't get me...

**Stranger:** Who did this?

**Justine:** (Sobbing quietly)

**Stranger:** I need to get into the briefing room. Does Doc have a key here?

**Justine:** She...she usually keeps a spare in her desk, but she t-took it with her when she...when she...

**Stranger:** Where did she go? Is she still alive?

**Justine:** ...

**Stranger:** Where did she go?

**Justine:** ...

The Stranger could see that he would get no more from Justine. But as he turned to leave she called out to him.

**Justine: **I have a spare.

**Stranger:** How did you get a spare key?

**Justine:** I-I found it when I came to do some w-work here one night...

**Stranger:** You stole it?

**Justine:** No, it wasn't like that! I was going to return it, but I...but I...

**Stranger:** Whatever. Just hand it over.

Without another word, Justine handed the small brass key over to the Stranger. She said no more to him, clearly in too much shock. Stranger left the lab, and Justine, in the dark stillness. He went to the briefing room door and, wasting no time whatsoever, shoved the key into the lock and opened the door.

The projector was indeed switched on, but there was no film inside. He could make out more dismembered body parts in here, and just caught the shape of a small, blood slicked prosthetic hook with an arm attached stuck into the padded bench.

**Stranger:** _The Colonel..._

But something caught his eye to the right. Scrawled crudely on the wall behind the torn projector screen; in what was likely the blood of various former Spookhouse agents; and emblazoned with a single large claw print, were the words that would haunt the Strangers mind for a long time to come:

**Finally found you, Stranger!**

* * * * *


	2. Act I, Chapter I

**Act I, Chapter I**

**1943**

It was a dark, stormy evening in mid April. It had been raining nonstop for a week. Reporters claimed that it would continue for many more weeks to come, and if anything would only get worse.

A train sped through a dark forest. It left a thick, billowing trail of grey steam as it snaked through the trees, an iron cloud upon an emerald quilt. The train was relatively empty, only a handful of passengers were boarding for this journey. One of these was a man in his early thirties, dressed in a dark grey, pinstriped suit with fedora to match, a long grey overcoat that fell past his knees, and thick, black goggles that reflected the gaze of any who dared to look into them. Quiet and stoic, he sat arms folded in front of him, ignoring the scenery flying past. He had more important things on his mind.

The whistle blew at the front of the train signalling the end of his journey. It was getting quite dark now, and he would have to get moving.

The train pulled to a stop at the station. Quickly and quietly the man left his seat and stepped out into the cold evening air. The sky was deep gray, with no hint of the suns' light staining the solid hue. It had taken the man longer than he'd expected to get here.

He was to get a cab to his location. Of course the train hadn't taken him directly there; the location was top secret and hidden quite far from civilisation. Even he only vaguely knew of its position. This was going to be more hassle than he'd hoped. He could feel it.

Swiftly he left the station and embarked down a small concrete pathway to the nearby parking lot. If luck was on his side there would already be a cab there waiting.

It wasn't.

The man cursed to himself and took a seat on a nearby bench. It creaked loudly as he sat down, and he searched around him. The station and the parking lot seemed empty now, the other passengers having gone their separate ways.

He slowly slid his right hand underneath his overcoat, feeling the weight of one of the pistols against his left rib. Thankfully no one had searched him before he got on the train; that was attention he really did not need.

Not now.

Something rattled to his right. He spun round, leaving the bench as he did so and reaching simultaneously for the two pistols. His eyes were fixed on one point somewhere in the darkness round the corner of the station. It was completely dark now, only the feeble light of the streetlamp casting a soft orange glow over the parking lot.

No movement. It was probably just a cat.

But he didn't sit back down. He stood on the spot, still staring into the darkness near the station. Where were all the fucking cabs?

Then it happened. A fine white mist floated in from the shadows at the corner where the man still stared, growing steadily thicker as it approached him.

_Approached him._

He knew all too well what this mist meant. He quickly pulled out the pistols from their holsters and checked the ammo.

**Man:** (in thought) _shit, this won't do: wrong kind of ammo. I need to find something that will work-_

He backed up slightly. The mist was too close now. And he could just hear it, soft as the wind stirring dead leaves but all too real and very dangerous to a normal human:

**Voices:** Come...please us...there's nothing but peace in our arms....

The man knew how to ignore the voices. It was one of the first things they taught you. And then through the mist he could see three forms slowly materialising, growing more solid as they drew closer. All female he could see now, their grey white skin catching the light of the streetlamp and their dark eyes desperately trying to pry into his mind.

**Vampires:** Please...help us...we can please you....we are made to please you...

They were desperate now. And they were too close.

The man fired a single bullet into the vampire on his left. She barely staggered and then rose into the air, quiet as snowfall, and her arms reaching out to him like a mother reaches to her child. Her yellow eyes were glowering with rage.

**Vampires:** You will please us!

They were angry now, and very desperate. Not a good combination.

Knowing his bullets would be useless against them, and not wanting to waste the only weapons he had, he turned and ran from the parking lot down to the main road. If he could just find something to use against them, a stake maybe...

Bingo. A small thicket of bushes fenced off some houses on the far side of the road. And even in the dark he could see that they bore small dying blooms of white roses.

Perfect.

Wasting no more time and beginning to feel the cold vampiric mist wrap around him, the man sprinted across the road, pistols in hand, and threw himself down at the rose bushes. He holstered the pistols and tried to rip a sturdy branch off. The ones he managed to get were too flimsy to use against the monsters.

**Man:** Fuck...come on!

It was no use. At this rate he would have to uproot an entire bush to get a strong enough weapon. Looking over his shoulder, he saw the mist rolling over the road towards him, the three vampires gliding in its midst.

There was no time for this crap. Taking the bush in front of him in both hands, he pulled strenuously towards himself, his leather gloves slipping slightly against the damp bark of the trunk. He took a breath and pulled again, feeling the earth start to give underneath. One more hefty tug and the bush finally uprooted, ripping up noisily and trailing earth along the sidewalk. He broke off the bottom of the bush not without some struggle, and cast the rest aside.

He had to dive out of the grasp of one of the vampires, who was seconds away from latching onto his sweaty neck with ravenous hunger. He sprang to his feet and thrust the makeshift stake at the vampire, driving it with much force into her pale breast.

The scream, as always, was hideous. Demonic. She stumbled back and, as the man watched, crumbled to dust leaving only a withered grey skeleton behind. Any other wood would not have done such a thing. Luck seemed to have taken pity on him.

The other two were furious. They rounded on him with nightmarish speed, baring their dry yellowed fangs and hissing with serpentine fervour. The man thrust the stake at them, a vibrant warning against them, and they understood all too well. They recoiled as if the very scent of the rosewood offended them to no end, and would come no closer.

He prepared to attack them. He could do it easily. But his focus was drawn behind them, where he saw a thick mist creeping heavily and quickly behind the now screeching vampires. Two he could handle, three or four single handed if he had the right ammo. But he could see that he was out of his depth here, and no way would he succeed with only his shoddy stake. He would have to retreat.

Still holding the stake towards the vampires like a makeshift shield, he quickly backed away and once he was a safe enough distance, made a run for it. He sprinted down the sidewalk glancing behind every so often, seeing them fast approaching. There were more of them now; the mist towered above them threateningly. At this rate they would surely catch up to him.

He kept running. If it came to that, he would go out fighting each and every one of the fuckers.

But it would not come to that.

At the end of the road, the man could see the headlights of a car drawing close. As it came into view, he could see the white sign atop the roof: a cab.

The man signalled furiously at the cab, desperate to catch its attention. Success! It slowed down and stopped beside him. He wrenched the door open and flung himself onto the backseat. The cabbie looked round, confused.

**Cabbie:** So where to man?

**Man:** Just keep going along this road, as fast as you can.

The cabbie still looked confused as he turned round. They sped along the road, through the fatal mist and into the darkness beyond.

Call it cowardice if you like, but sometimes the smarter option is to fall back and regroup. Much better to flee an impossible situation than give in to idiocy.

The cab continued along the main road, taking no turns and travelling at a steady speed. They had long since left the vampires far behind, though the man would have to let the others know of this when he arrived. He was surprised nobody had been sent out already, this didn't seem like a minor case...

**Cabbie:** So where you headed this time of night?

The cabbies' voice held a ghost of irritation in his thick New York accent. He didn't take his eyes of the road as he asked.

**Man:** Turn at the end of the road. Then carry on until the end. I'll walk the rest of the way.

The cabbie turned briefly to eye the strange man sitting still as a statue in the back of his cab. His eyebrows were raised in shocked admiration. He knew where that road would take him.

**Cabbie:** You know that'll leave you in the middle of nowhere, right?

The man was vaguely irritated by the cabbies question. Of course he knew it would take him to the middle of nowhere. That was the point.

**Man:** I know exactly where I'm going.

The cabbie simply dismissed the man's slightly arrogant tone and the two continued the journey in silence.

It was fully night-time now. Thankfully the man had enough of a mind to save his ammunition in the midst of the vampire attack. There would probably be more obstacles in the woods surrounding the location.

_The woods._ He hadn't thought of that. He looked up through the smog frosted window into the cloudy night sky. No moon, a good sign if he was to be traversing through a heavily wooded area. But that still didn't mean he was out of the deep end yet, and he instinctively let his hands fall on his pistols.

A few minutes later the cab turned at the end of the road, and continued along a much smaller street gradually leading them into ever more scenic territory. It wasn't long before they were surrounded by tall, thick trees. This area was whimsically named the Devils' Woods. Almost fifteen minutes later they reached the end of the road, a single flickering streetlamp lighting the way.

**Man:** This'll do.

The cab drew to a stop just before the very end. Indeed there was nothing beyond this point other than trees; he couldn't even make out a footpath. Stepping out of the cab he reached into the right pocket of his overcoat. He pulled out a handful of dollars and tossed them through the open window on the passenger's side.

**Cabbie:** Hey don't you want your change?! Hey buddy!

The man didn't reply. He simply walked away from the cab, without a single word, and stopped just outside the black woods. The cab revved up and screeched as it turned round, and in a cloud of blue smoke it disappeared back down the road into the night.

Finally alone, the man entered the woods, making sure to enter directly to the left of the road. It was perfectly quiet save for a light breeze gently stirring the trees. It would probably be quite peaceful to someone who didn't know any better.

In such a closed environment the man would need all the light he could get. He extracted a tiny black flashlight from his breast pocket and fixed it to the right hand pistol, twisting the head once it was secure. The small bulb burst into a brilliant cone of white light, casting strange spidery shadows against the spindly trees.

There seemed to be no threat here. But that didn't mean there wouldn't be. He would need to move quickly. For the first time since boarding the train he took out a small folded square of paper from his overcoat. Unfolding it, he quickly skimmed the short message:

**Take 14:15 St. B to St. D, then cab to D.W.**

**Bearings from - 250N, 340E**

**Do not get lost**

**Man:** _'Do not get lost'. Thanks for that, assholes. _

He folded the note back into his overcoat and scanned the area. Still no movement. He'd better get going; he knew he had a long trek ahead of him. He looked to the right of where he stood, and noted the small wooden sign withered with rot and completely illegible. If it were legible, it would say 'Devils Woods'. Devils Woods sign; .

Unfortunately the coordinates offered a strictly fixed route through the woods, which meant that he would not be using a footpath for any period of time. The good news was that he did have a compass, which would get him though the woods fairly easily. The bad news was that if he were at any time accosted by enemies it wouldn't do to use the compass during combat.

He whipped out the compass; a plain steel disk bent slightly at one edge; and checked his bearings. Perfect. Holding the compass in his left hand and the pistol-flashlight combo in the right, he set off through the tangled thickets.

The embracing growths snapped and crunched beneath his steps, and each came easily up to his knees forcing him to raise his legs considerably. A thorny branch snagged on his overcoat, nearly tearing the left pocket clean off. It was becoming ever clearer to him that this was not the ideal place to be overwhelmed by enemies, and so he began to move quicker.

**Man:** _Thank fuck the moon isn't out tonight. _

Onwards he battled though the thickets, checking the compass every so often to make sure that he was on track. Once he almost veered horribly off course, prompting him to check more frequently. It would have been pitch black in the woods now, the dim light of the streetlamp completely extinguished by the ever thickening trees. At least his flashlight was fully charged.

A branch snapped somewhere in front of him.

He stopped and held the gun firmly into the trees. The flashlight would definitely draw the attention of whatever had made the noise; assuming it _was_ something; but at least he would be fully prepared.

Nothing stirred.

He didn't waste another second. He trampled through the foliage even quicker now, scanning the area for any sign of movement. He checked the compass; still on track. Any moment now he could turn right, and embark on the final part of his journey.

**Man:** _The longer part._

It wasn't long before he heard it again. Another snapping sound, this time followed by an odd crunch. Something vaguely familiar to the man.

Turning on the spot, carefully examining the surrounding area within reach of his flashlight, he tried to spot anything unusual.

There was something just to the left of his pathway. Something moving.

He marked the spot where he stood with five sticks, drew a circle around them in the mud and ventured out to find the source of the movement. He couldn't possibly avoid this thing, whatever it was. It might follow him.

It took him longer than he'd expected to reach it. And when he got there he was almost startled by what he found.

A squirrel.

He almost felt disappointed at seeing the small grey mammal, staring at him with blank black eyes just within the very outer reaches of the flashlight. He was going to turn back; when he found the circle of sticks he could continue his trek-

**Man:** Shit...

He couldn't help letting it slip out as he shifted the focus of the flashlight, ready to turn back. The squirrel was not alive.

He didn't notice before in the dim light, but the squirrel seemed to be propped up against the dark trunk of a tree. Or at least what was left of the squirrel. Blood soaked the rough bark at the base of the tree and the plants surrounding it. Traces of entrails hung from the foliage like macabre Christmas decorations. The smell of death grew strong on the dawdling breeze.

And then the crunch. That familiar sound that he had heard earlier but nearly forgotten. The sound that he was suddenly beginning to remember all too vividly.

He stepped forward to cast more light on the scene.

Then he saw the figure.

It stood quite easily at around seven foot tall, the sickly yellow skin lightly sagging off the sinewy, deceptively thin muscles. Its spindly hands would pick up whole watermelons with no trouble at all, and the long sharp fingernails were encrusted with gore and grime. Its face was covered; it was feeding now. Another small squirrel was being mercilessly eviscerated by the deadly fingers, slowly unravelled into a sticky mound of flesh, blood and fur. The smell was unholy.

It noticed him. It looked up, fully exposing its face which was covered in blood and squirrel innards. Even in the dim light the man could see the ghastly features; the bulging dry white eyes, the nightmarish mouth pulled into a leering perverted grin, showing all of the sharp blackened teeth. It had no hair; they never did.

The grin grew wider. It wasn't interested in squirrels anymore.

No time to waste. Ghouls were deceptively fast and strong, and tended to go a bit berserk if they got too hungry. And despite having guzzled two squirrels already it didn't look to be full any time soon. It lurched forward with eerie jerking movements, almost spiderlike, reaching for the man's face.

In one swift movement he back stepped out of the creatures grasp and fired the pistol into its wrinkled breast. It barely flinched, and continued to grope towards him with startling speed. More shots were fired, but it wasn't going down. Time to go.

He backed up, knowing he wouldn't have time to find the sticks now, and tried as best he could to run in the opposite direction. The ghoul had no trouble getting through the woods; its hands served as machetes against the tangled plants. The man fired more rounds at the creature, hoping he could get enough into its brain to kill it, but he could only aim so well when trying not to fall down. He almost completely forgot the compass; he was going in the right direction but not on track as he should be.

His foot caught in some weeds and he slammed into the base of a twisted tree. Before he knew it the ghoul was falling on top of him, tearing frantically at his overcoat. Its freezing breath stank of dead squirrel as it shrieked in frustration, trying to taste his warm sweaty flesh.

With difficulty, the man angled the pistol up to the temple of the ghoul. The flashlight cast eerie shadows over the creatures face, further distorting the already hideous features. Suddenly it lurched down at his face, the giant mouth growing impossibly wide.

It was now or never.

The shot rang out into the forest seemingly louder than the others. The creature jerked and gave one final rasped gurgle as thick, blackened blood oozed from the fresh wound in its skull. The woods were silent.

But not for long. As the man shoved the offensive creature off of himself, brushing dirt and dead leaves from his overcoat, his stomach dropped as he heard more shrieks stabbing out from the woods like shattering glass, and the rapidly approaching sound of snapping foliage told him to get the hell out of there. He was ignoring the compass now, running blindly in the opposite direction. His only thought was to survive.

They were getting closer. He could smell the sickly rotting of their skin pressing against him like a brick wall, the unholy shrieks like spikes piercing through. The man pointed his gun behind and fired blindly into the wall of noise and smell, still trying desperately to stay on his feet.

Just as the heavy crunching of the ghouls' feet drew close enough for them to reach out and grab him, the man saw the trees beginning to thin. There seemed to be a clearing mere feet beyond the woods, just close enough to be seen outside of the flashlights beam. A ghoul swiped the back of his overcoat with the ends of its' bladed fingers, and in one spontaneous move he dove out through the trees.

He rolled out into the clearing. He clambered to his feet and turned to face his assailants. There were three of them, all as hideous as each other with the same perverse grin stretched across their yellowed faces. They towered over him as they stumbled forwards into the clearing, desperate to tear the man to shreds.

The compass meant nothing to him now. Throwing it aside, he pulled out his other pistol and began firing relentlessly at the monsters. The flashlight pistol had run out of ammo by now, so he found himself using only the left pistol against the three monsters. They were too powerful, however, and within seconds they had advanced upon him. The ghoul on the left grabbed the pistol and threw it aside; the one on the right tore into the overcoat to get to the meat underneath. The middle ghoul grabbed his throat, the razor sharp claws cutting into the flesh easily like a knife through butter. He tried to butt this one in the head with his pistol but it was no use; the right ghoul had his arm in an iron grip and the weapon fell heavily to the ground. The one on the left was pulling vigorously at his left hand, trying to tear it clean off. The one in front squeezed his neck ever tighter, leaning in to taste the succulent flesh of the mans' purple, pulsating face.

What a way to die.

_BOOM!_

Something exploded into the night, cutting through the screams of the reeking ghouls. At first the man thought it might have been thunder, a passing thought through the sense of impending death. But even as he acknowledged the sound, and just as he was about to lose consciousness, he felt the grip around his neck loosen, and felt a cold _splatter_ on his cheek as the rain began to seep through the trees.

No, not rain. It felt much too thick. Then the man realised that it was actually blood, and when he looked up it was gushing from the forehead of the ghoul sitting on his chest.

_BOOM!_

Another explosion, only this time the man knew full well what the sound was. The ghoul on his right shrieked as its' left shoulder exploded, the shot tearing the whole arm clean out of its socket.

_BOOM!_

Right into the neck, obliterating the entire lower half of its face. It stood there for a moment, swaying gently as thick black blood gushed over its chest, and then crumpled heavily into the damp mud.

Snapping to his senses, the man shoved the dead ghoul of his chest and threw a fist forcefully into the last ghouls face, shocking it slightly and giving him enough time to free his hand. He tried to get to his feet but he was still dizzy from being strangled, and could only clamber backwards away from the ghoul who had now come to its senses. Once again it lunged forward with another glass shattering scream, long hands outstretched towards him, and fury in its white eyes.

_BOOM!_

One final shot tore into the creatures' skull, spreading the brown brains messily across the clearing. It made no further sound as it slumped into its own filth.

All was quiet.

After a few moments the man slowly stood, the throbbing in his brain dissipating steadily. As the stars disappeared from the edges of his vision, he observed the carnage in the clearing. It was spectacular how much of a mess had been made, and the stench was worse than ever. If he had been anyone else he would have been violently sick.

**Man: **_That must have been one hell of a gun-_

He remembered that he wasn't alone. Realising that he was unarmed he suddenly felt extremely vulnerable; who knew if his saviours' motives were entirely amiable. He turned about quickly to face whoever had rescued him.

He almost couldn't believe his eyes when he saw him.

**Colonel Hapscomb: **Stranger...I'm glad to see you've arrived.

* * * * *


	3. Act I, Chapter II

**Act I, Chapter II**

It was freezing inside the building, far colder than it was outside.

From the outside it looked like a small farmhouse, which was probably why the Stranger hadn't noticed it when he'd first arrived in the clearing. That or the fact he'd nearly been eaten. On the inside, however, it was almost completely empty, the threadbare carpet completely devoid of colour and the washed out wallpaper peeling heavily around the edges. The walls and ceiling were badly marked with damp, and the whole place smelled of mould and mildew.

The new Spookhouse headquarters.

**Colonel Hapscomb:** Of course this is only temporary. We needed somewhere obscure that would serve us until we get this whole business sorted, and this seemed a rather unassuming little place. Granted it's not entirely practical all things considered, but all the same-

**Stranger:** I thought you were dead.

The words lingered in the cold atmosphere for a few moments. In the dark shadows of the farmhouse Stranger could see the Colonel watching him with his one good eye, his expression unreadable.

**Colonel Hapscomb:** Yes. I apologise for the secrecy Stranger, but you must understand the severity of the situation. I couldn't afford to allow anybody to think that I might still be alive, I still can't; it would only draw unwanted attention. I understand that even _you _have been laying low for the past year-

**Stranger: **You could have told _me_.

**Colonel Hapscomb:** I could tell _nobody, _Stranger. Not even you.

His tone was firm, a sure sign that the discussion was closed. The Stranger folded his arms and turned away from the Colonel, examining the hall of the house.

**Stranger:** Not exactly what you'd call 'formal' is it?

**Colonel Hapscomb:** Hah, well desperate times call for desperate measures, Stranger. We have to take what we can get under such dire circumstances, and anything less likely to draw attention to ourselves is all the better right now.

**Stranger:** Is this it?

The Colonel motioned for the Stranger to follow him into the lounge.

There was a single sad looking sofa sitting against the opposite wall, badly drooping in the middle as if the seat had been subjected to a lifetime of obese occupants. An old wooden side table stood to the left of the sofa, its surface covered in a thick layer of dust. The carpet was worn severely in the far corner, exposing the hard wood underneath.

**Colonel Hapscomb:** The thing that attracted me most to this house in particular was the basement. It's very far below the house, and connects to a small barn a little further away via a secret tunnel. Handy if we need to make a quick escape.

**Stranger:** No ridiculous passwords this time around, I notice.

The Colonel stopped dead in his tracks. It was common knowledge within Spookhouse that the Stranger had always been opposed to the original pass code.

**Colonel Hapscomb:** No.

He continued to a door to the right of the sofa. He said nothing else as he extracted a small iron key from his jacket.

The door led into a small closet. A thick iron bar ran the length of the closet, and a single long green jacket hung from it on a thin wire hanger. The Colonel pushed this aside and crouched down, brushing some dust away from the wood panelled floor. He slipped a finger underneath a small hole at the edge of the closet floor, and pulled.

The entire floor of the closet lifted, exposing a large hole leading down into the basement. A fine cloud of dust bloomed out of the exposed tunnel, and the Colonel cleared his throat. The dust brought with it a blast of freezing air.

**Colonel Hapscomb:** The ladder shakes rather profusely, but it's quite safe.

The Stranger didn't complain as the Colonel led the way down to the basement. The ladder did indeed shake very badly; it felt as if the whole thing might break off, and seemed to stretch forever into the freezing pitch black. But the two men eventually made it to the bottom, the echo of the rattling ladder fading gradually into the abyss. Somewhere to the Strangers' left, the Colonel pulled a light switch, bathing the basement in soft yellow light.

The basement was a huge, practically empty rectangular room, the single source of light a small bulb hanging from the centre of the ceiling. It was entirely concrete; uniform grey blending perfectly with the Strangers' own attire. A large desk stood at the far end of the room, constructed from solid dark wood, with several cheap looking metal chairs surrounding it. Behind this a faded white laminate board stretched from the floor to the ceiling, reflecting the small golden orb of light on its' crinkled surface. A collection of rusted iron pegs ran the length of the room on the right; all empty.

**Stranger: **Nice.

**Colonel Hapscomb:** Well, I certainly think so-

**Stranger:** I was being sarcastic.

The Colonel simply grunted at the Strangers' disapproval. He approached the table and put the impressive elephant rifle down.

**Stranger:** You know, for the new Spookhouse headquarters it's hardly what I'd call 'appropriate'.

**Colonel Hapscomb:** Well as I said Stranger, we can only do so much in such a short amount of time. And since this is only temporary I think it will do just fine.

**Stranger:** Whatever.

Colonel Hapscomb seemed to have resigned in his attempt to sway the Stranger, and instead pulled a black leather duffel bag out from a space behind the white board. He placed it heavily onto the table, and pulled out a medical kit and a big bottle of scotch. He flipped the lid on the medical kit and pulled out some bandages.

**Colonel Hapscomb:** You should probably put this over your wounds, Stranger.

Wounds? He'd been so caught up over the sudden appearance of the Colonel that he hadn't even noticed the throbbing in his neck. He rubbed his hand over his jugular as the Colonel poured some scotch on the bandages, and felt the stickiness of clotting blood along with a sharp jolt of pain.

**Stranger:** Forget about it, it's fine.

The Colonel stood for a moment; seemingly unsure as to whether he should listen to the Stranger. But he lowered the bandages, and placed them back on the table, instead focusing on the bottle of scotch.

**Colonel Hapscomb:** Care for a drop?

The Stranger held his arms firmly over his chest once again, the thick goggles blocking the expression he might have held in his eyes, if any.

**Stranger:** No thanks.

The Colonel shrugged, and reached inside the duffel. He pulled out one heavy looking tumbler and began to pour.

**Colonel Hapscomb:** Well, it was certainly a good thing I came up when I did. I didn't even know there were ghouls in the area-

**Stranger:** Yeah, real peachy. Cut the crap Colonel, I think you have some explaining to do.

The Colonel stood quietly for a moment, deep in thought it seemed. Then he let out a long sigh.

**Colonel Hapscomb:** You're right. Have a seat.

His usually steady British accent held a slight quiver as he spoke, glass in hand. The Stranger sat down on one of the chairs, the cheap metal creaking under his weight.

**Colonel Hapscomb:** So...where should I begin?

**Stranger:** What happened in Spookhouse that night?

The Colonel sank back into his thoughts. He was clearly having a hard time recounting the memory, and he'd been through some pretty rough times in the past. Finally he spoke.

**Colonel Hapscomb:** A group of men wearing death masks stormed the headquarters. They were very powerful, and their numbers were far too great for us to handle. They started torturing all of the agents, ripping the entire facility to bits looking for information; information about _you._

He looked at the Stranger as he said that. Not an accusatory look; merely a gesture. There was a ghost of fatigue in his single blue eye.

It was no wonder that someone would be out to get the Stranger; indeed he was highly notorious throughout the supernatural world, and it was to be expected that there would be some danger to his wellbeing. But no-one, group or otherwise, had ever even gotten close to breaching headquarters before. And that he alone would be singled out and sought after with such venomous fervour was disturbing, even to the Stranger.

**Stranger:** Why?

**Colonel Hapscomb:** They wouldn't say. Of course the agents tried to fight back, but they were no match. You may have noticed some of the casualties-

**Stranger:** How did you know I went back?

The Colonel gave an empty chuckle.

**Colonel Hapscomb:** I guessed that you would. You did still work with us, after all.

He swallowed the last of his scotch, and started to pour another. Any other man and the Stranger might have considered stopping him. But the Colonel could hold his drink like no other.

**Stranger:** Whatever. So how the hell did _you_ manage to survive?

**Colonel Hapscomb: **Scat, Rogan and I managed to barricade ourselves within the briefing room after the main slaughter, but they soon got to us. They tortured us all, extensively...

He glassed over at that point. Whoever had attacked the Spookhouse must have been extremely sadistic to make the Colonel act this way.

**Stranger:** Colonel?

It was then that the Stranger noticed the Colonels' left hand for the first time: the hook was still there, but it was different, now reaching just below the elbow. That certainly explained what he'd seen back then...

**Colonel Hapscomb:** I'm fine. They killed Rogan and Scat, but kept me alive. They spent a long time trying to get me to talk, doing some pretty God-awful stuff-

**Stranger:** What did you tell them?

The Colonel shot him a venomous look; the Stranger really should have known better than to doubt the Colonels' trust.

**Stranger:** Go on.

**Colonel Hapscomb:** I only managed to survive by playing dead. A silly trick I know, but a trick that somehow saved my life. They must have thought they'd gone too far, because they left me alone then. They stuck around searching the headquarters for a while, going through files. They were particularly interested in the lab.

The Stranger cast his thoughts back to Justine, Docs' young lab assistant who had been almost too shocked to give him the briefing room key. How the hell had she survived such a violent attack that left most of his fellow agents dead? And why hadn't she fled with the Colonel?

**Colonel Hapscomb:** When they finally left I went around looking for any survivors, and to see what they'd taken if anything. Needless to say, they'd ransacked the lab.

**Stranger:** What about Justine?

The Colonel seemed to be confused for a moment, but soon realised who the Stranger was talking about.

**Colonel Hapscomb:** The lab assistant? She wasn't there. I believe Doc had sent her home early. I may be mistaken. Why do you ask?

**Stranger: **She was there. Alive.

The Colonel looked surprised.

**Colonel Hapscomb:** Really? Well I'll be damned. She must have hidden extremely well to have avoided the onslaught. Good for her.

Another amber measure filled the tumbler.

**Stranger:** Hmm. What about Doc? Any sign of what happened to her?

**Colonel Hapscomb:** I'm afraid not. I don't know whether they took her, or if she somehow managed to escape. And I honestly don't know how she could have. There must have been at least 30 intruders and they were clearly not entirely human.

**Stranger:** And the others?

**Colonel Hapscomb:** They killed Khen, and when they realised that Icepick was too "slow" and too violent to be of any use to them they disassembled him. There wasn't much left of Haystack, apart from his boxing gloves. I don't know what they did with Svetlana. Moloch is the only one who I know is still alive, apart from yourself of course. He wasn't in Spookhouse at the time but was soon alerted of the situation. I believe he is still in hiding somewhere, although I haven't been able to contact him.

None of this served to strengthen the Strangers' faith in the future of Spookhouse. Most of the agents were dead or missing, and they still had no idea who this mystery gang was. Even if they did reform, the same thing would most likely happen again.

**Stranger:** So what now?

**Colonel Hapscomb:** I've been in extensive talks with Biggs over the matter, and he's set his special squad to Red Alert. But until _we_ can at least figure out who that group _is_ there isn't much else we can do on the matter.

**Stranger: **So why the hell are we even here? What's all this 'new Spookhouse' bullshit all about anyway?

**Colonel Hapscomb:** We have a responsibility to keep the general public safe from the influence of the supernatural world. If this group could do what they did to our agency, who knows what else they're planning to do? We must find out who this group is, what they want, and how we can stop them once and for all! We're Spookhouse for Christ sakes! If we let this group destroy what we've spent years building and strengthening, then we have nothing! We _are _nothing!

The Colonel was clearly incensed. And in spite of his over dramatic speech he was right. They needed to stop this cult, whoever they were.

**Stranger:** Fair enough. But how exactly do you expect the two of us to stop them? I may be the best monster hunter you've had at Spookhouse, but I saw what they did back there. I'm not stupid.

The Colonel downed the last of his scotch, but didn't pour himself another.

**Colonel Hapscomb:** I have been in contact with a smaller, independent organisation similar to Spookhouse, and they obviously understand the gravity of the situation. They are sending a couple of their best agents down here to help us, and will be monitoring for any possibly linked activity in their area. They should be arriving any day now.

**Stranger:** 'A couple' is not good enough.

**Colonel Hapscomb:** It's better than nothing. They are a small group and cannot afford to send out too many agents at once on one mission. They have agreed to contact any organisations they may know of but have yet to yield any results. At present, this will have to do.

The Stranger was still not convinced. But it seemed they would have to make do for the time being. If they could not fight, they could at least research and wait until a more suitable time. But just how much time they had remained to be seen.

The Stranger still had a few more questions to ask, but before he could say anything more the Colonel spoke first.

**Colonel Hapscomb:** At any rate, it will help us at least try to find out something about this group. We'll talk more on the matter tomorrow; it's been a long day and I'm finding myself rather tired now. You'll stay here also; this house has three bedrooms so we are fairly well accommodated.

It was clear that this was all the Stranger would get out of the Colonel for the night. Tomorrow would be far more appropriate for more questioning.

The two men ascended the rickety ladder after the duffel bag had been replaced, and the Colonel dropped the trap door as softly as he was able. There was one more thing that came to the Strangers mind as they made for the staircase in the front hallway.

**Stranger:** I almost forgot. When I arrived at the train station I was attacked by a group of vampires. There must have been about ten. I was unable to fight them off with the artillery I have.

**Colonel Hapscomb:** I see. We will have to investigate the matter further tomorrow. Even in our critical situation we mustn't forget our general duty-

_BANG!BANG!BANG!_

The two men froze at the foot of the staircase. Someone was at the door.

* * * * *


End file.
